


They Say You Die Twice

by lightinthehall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Cowboy!Dean, Cowboys, M/M, Pining!Sam, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightinthehall/pseuds/lightinthehall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the time on Dean’s deal is drawing to a close, Dean takes Sam to a run-down ranch to recuperate after the days that Never Were, so that Sam might have at least one moment of perfect peace to remember him by – just in case. Unbeknownst to the boys, the nearby forest has its own unique way of preserving memories. (partially inspired by this <a href="http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/79365.html?thread=29407493#t29407493">kink meme prompt</a>) [ Season 3, Post-Mystery Spot ]<br/>Written for the <a href="http://samdean-otp.livejournal.com/">SamDean OTP Minibang 2014</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	They Say You Die Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to loftyxmelodizt, the girl I can turn to for anything, even beta for my silly fics. Thank you for putting up with my fic talk, and letting me inflict my writing on you. And well, getting me through life in general. You are the best friend I could ever have.
> 
> Bigbigbig thank you to yanyann, the artist I was so lucky to get paired up with, thank you for your patience and understanding and the beautiful art. I couldn't have asked for a better person for my first time doing the challenge! EVERYONE GO TAKE A LOOK AT THE ART! IT'S AWESOME AND MARY THE SHEEP IS ADORABLE.
> 
> [ART MASTERPOST HERE](http://yanyann.livejournal.com/13275.html)  
>  
> 
> [LINK TO FIC ON LJ](http://souslelys.livejournal.com/39462.html)

Early morning light filters through the window across from his bed; the white curtains glow with it, while sounds of a dawn chorus sing through the cabin walls. The room itself is unfamiliar to Sam but it’s the lack of green walls and mustard-yellow curtains that slow his rapid heartbeat, relief washing through him like an incoming tide.

_It’s a new day – it’s a_ different _day, and Dean is safe, he’s alive, he’s_ –

“Dean?” he calls out tentatively, wiping sleep from his eyes. The emptiness of the room breaking down the relief and giving way to panic that bubbles up in him, rising with every silent second that passes. Sam sits up in the bed – the only bed in the room – and looks at the closed bathroom door, taking comfort in the strip of light beneath it. The pieces are coming together in his head, but he needs more, needs to _see_.

“De -”

“- Sam?” The bathroom door abruptly swings open and his brother steps out, rushing to his side. There’s toothpaste flecked across the side of his mouth, and Dean’s hair is messy-damp, but he’s still the most beautiful thing Sam has ever seen.

Dean kneels next to the bed, his eyes quickly moving over Sam, looking for hurt, looking for _wrong_. Sam reaches out and presses his palm against Dean’s warm chest, over his thumping heart, and miracle of miracles – Dean lets him. Sam breathes easier for it.

“Monday. Adama Ranch,” Dean glances at his wrist watch, “Quarter after seven.”

Dean’s taken to reciting this new mantra, reminding Sam of the when, the where. Dean thinks that it’ll ground him – help him move past the days, months that Never Were. And it does, a little. But what Sam _needs to know_ more than anything, is that Dean is alive. That he _will_ be alive at the end of the day and every day afterwards.

His brother’s shoulders rise and fall with every breath, and the air smells faintly of mint while Sam counts the heartbeats beneath his hand, trying to forget the time when the skin beneath his was still and cold.

The moment Sam passes his brother’s inspection, Dean’s eyes calm and his shoulders relax. He grins at Sam, flicking him on the nose. Sam makes a face, annoyance winning over affection in an instant, even as he tries to ignore the sad ache when Dean moves away.

“About time you woke up, Sammy. Thought I was gonna have to hunt down a rooster or something.”

There hasn’t been an alarm since – well, since. Not even a clock on the bedside table. Dean’s always been the one to set them at night, thanks to years of 4am drills, but Sam’s woken up without the incessant nightmarish beeping for almost a week now. Dean hasn’t said anything about it, but Sam is silently grateful.

“I thought if I slept in long enough, I wouldn’t have to watch you preen in front of the mirror,” Sam says, pretending Dean isn’t half-dressed in front of him. His brother is wearing plaid boxers and a soft white undershirt that Sam’s not entirely sure isn’t _his_. His face warms at the thought. Stray clothing is inevitable, living in such close quarters with someone, but Sam’s seem to migrate into his brother’s duffle more often than not.

“Some of us like to look good, princess.”

“ _You’re_ the one with the 30-minute morning prep routine and _I’m_ the princess?”

“You’ve got the locks for it. And the prissy face. And three pink shirts –“

“Shut up – _you_ were the one in charge of the white laundry – “

Dean gleefully dodges the pillow that Sam hurls at him, grabbing jeans and a shirt from his duffle before returning to the bathroom.

Mornings are the worst, but Sam’s already beginning to feel more like himself.

-o-

By the time Dean saunters out again, Sam’s almost shifting from foot to foot, bladder fit to burst and two seconds from knocking down the bathroom door – but at the sight of his brother, he’s not so sure he isn’t about to come in his pants instead.

True to form, Dean’s hair is gelled to perfection, shirt stretching tight across his chest. He’s wearing his usual jeans, but today – _today_ his denim-clad legs end in boots that Sam’s never seen before.

_Cowboy boots_.

Dean’s pre-occupied with some last minute primping in front of the room’s full-length mirror, giving Sam a rather excellent view of Dean’s back. And _Jesus_ , all Sam can do is stare. The boots accentuate the curve of his brother’s bowlegs; the slight heel lengthening the lines of them, drawing Sam’s eyes involuntarily up to his brother’s rounded ass underneath his jeans. The room is suddenly stiflingly hot – Sam can feel himself flush, glad Dean can’t see him in the mirror at this angle.

Dean has always had a knack for looking good in just about anything. Sam remembers getting Dean’s hand-me-downs (during those long-ago years when Dean was the one who towered over him), and feeling small and skinny and ugly in the same clothing that Dean had pulled off so effortlessly.

Heck, one Halloween, Dean had thought it would be a great idea to go as ghosts: thin white bed sheets, eye-holes cut out – _come on Sammy, it’ll be hilarious!_ Sam remembers avidly watching the simple hint of his brother’s broadening teenage shoulders, the tuft of his hair spiking the top of the fabric and the curve of his nose between the gaps in the sheet where laughing green eyes stared back at him. Sam remembers stowing that very same sheet underneath his pillow for nights afterwards, breathing in his brother while ignoring the guilt and shame that burned in his chest.

The fact that Sam could truthfully say (not that he ever would) that Dean could make even _motel bed sheets_ desirable is something Sam wishes he could forget.

He wishes he could forget a lot of things – _Dean getting shot, hit by a car, electrocuted_ – _soft, smooth lips under his, a hitch of breath_ – Sam closes his eyes.

And now there’s this.

“What’s with the boots Dean? Going to a rodeo?”

Sam’s voice stays steady, thank God. Dean twists to glance down at them before sitting down on the corner of the bed.

“Nah, but I figured, _when in Rome_ – and all that,” Dean shrugs and Sam watches him idly tug at the pull straps. “They were Dad’s. Been in the trunk of the Impala forever.”

“They’re nice,” Sam offers awkwardly, wincing at himself – he can practically hear the mocking coming his way. But it’s true, now that he can see them closer. The smooth, dark brown leather of the boot shaft has a classic design etched in white decorative stitching that curves from the front, down to the contrasting rough leather vamp and rounded toe. The boots reach a few inches below Dean’s knees, hugging his jean covered calves.

Sam wants to trace the design with his fingers, wants to feel the flex of Dean’s foot trapped under the leather. He quickly stamps down that train of thought.

“I think Mom must’ve given them to him – otherwise he would’ve chucked them ages ago,” Dean continues, shooting a small grin at Sam. “They didn’t fit him.”

Sam nods, surprised at the mention of both their mother and father in one sitting - heck in one _day_. It’s not that Dean’s in denial about their deaths, but getting Dean to talk about important things is like trying to pull teeth from a werewolf – you’re more likely to get your arm bitten off, than anything.

“Get going, Sammy,” Dean says, gesturing to the bathroom. “Daylight’s burnin’.”

Not quite sure what Dean has planned, Sam rummages through his pack for clothes. Sam’s been wondering the same question since the Impala turned down an unpaved mountain road.

“Dean –“

“Fifteen minutes, or I’m leaving your ass, Sam.”

Dean gets up to fix the blankets strewn across the couch he slept on, basic training kicking in again. His brother’s been more subdued than usual, which is never a good sign. Sam’s either in for a marathon of pranks, or Dean’s stuck on a toxic loop of inner thoughts that he can’t dispel with lame jokes.

Sam walks into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He thinks maybe the answer is obvious. Calendars have long been cast aside – well before the alarm clocks – but that hasn’t stopped Sam from counting down the days, and the hours.

_Time is running out_.

-o-

“Wow,” Sam breathes, taking in the sight before them.

A tall stack of pancakes, complete with that picture-perfect dollop of melting butter is surrounded by the best looking omelettes he’s ever seen. There’s a large bowl of hashbrowns next to a wide plate piled high with sausage and bacon strips that Dean’s already drooling over. Two pitchers of juice and water are off to the side, cool droplets condensing on the outside of the clear glass. The poor picnic table is practically bowing under the weight of all the food.

It’s like the Greatest Hits of breakfast diners everywhere.

“Where did all this food come from?” Sam asks, in awe. He glances at his brother, whose expression has gone from _impressed_ to _in love_ in the span of five seconds. And there isn’t even any pie.

Before Sam could towel off his hair, Dean had dragged him out of their small cabin, bypassing the Impala and had led him right to the table in the middle of a grassy field, next to a lone, white-barked tree with bare branches. Sam can see a farm house and a stable in the distance, opposite a leafy forest on the edge of the grass line. Otherwise, not another soul for miles.

“Heh,” Dean chuckles fondly. “This is all Karen.”

_Karen_? Sam tries to place the name, wondering if he should be jealous (he is, a little) but Dean, for all his exploits and his bragging, hasn’t ever given any _Karen_ a special mention. Considering the beauty of a breakfast in front of them, Sam thinks she definitely deserves one. He wonders then if she’s some matronly old grandmother – the kind who cooks all day, apron and all, and spoils all her guests as if they were her grandchildren. He likes that theory better.

Dean’s already swinging a leg over the wooden bench, reaching for an empty plate and pulling the bacon towards him. Affection flows over Sam like beams of the rising sun. _So typical_.

Sam joins him on the same bench, ignoring Dean’s questioning look as he settles next to him.

“What is this place Dean?” It’s been bothering Sam since they arrived late last night, driving with the mountains dark in the car windows. It was difficult to see, even with the headlights on, but his brother was able to navigate the road with no problem at all. After stopping briefly at the farmhouse for a few minutes, his brother had been able to let them into the cabin and exhausted, Sam had fallen right asleep.

Daytime now, and Sam can see the landscape clearly. The mountains are grey in the distance, peak rising over the tops of tall, deep green trees. The dark trunks of the trees and the undergrowth a band of darkness beneath the greenery. For a moment, Sam catches a flash of white at the mouth of the forest; the shape flickers like a lantern in the night and Sam’s hand is already raised halfway to his brother’s arm to point it out.

Dean chooses that point to belch loudly in Sam’s ear. Sam punches Dean in the arm instead, as if that would knock some manners into him.

By the time, he looks back, the white figure is gone. Sam scans the treeline again. It extends further than Sam can see, wrapping around a wide field that holds a corral, right next to the farm house. Nothing. Like it was some trick of the light. There’s a corral next to the ranch, and he sees the far shape of maybe two – three? – horses. But that’s all. He finds that a bit odd; shouldn’t there be more livestock to keep a ranch like this running?

The place is idyllic, if empty.

Dean chews his mouthful of egg-bacon-pancakes slowly, surprising Sam by actually swallowing the food down before speaking.

“Adama ranch – probably the most south you can get while still in Arizona,” Dean tells him. “Our gracious host is Karen, who’s probably out tending horses or something. I’ll introduce you later.”

There’s enough fondness there to incite another passing pang of jealousy that’s easy enough to bury with his growing curiosity. The ranch name sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

“But how –“

“Quit nagging, Sammy,” Dean says, almost bored, reaching for the deep-red pitcher and pouring a glass for Sam and himself. Sam mumbles a quick thanks. “Can’t I enjoy breakfast heaven in peace?”

Sam rolls his eyes, sipping at his cup – and _oh my God_ he’s never had juice this amazing – there’s an almost addictive sweetness underlying the sour tang. He’s tempted to drink it down like nectar. They _need_ to stock the Impala with bottles of – whatever this is. He chugs down the glass and pours himself another.

“Mmpfh,” Dean moans into his own glass, “this stuff is liquid crack.”

Sam finishes off his third glass in agreement. The two of them are quiet, they’ve never needed conversation between them. Hours upon hours on the road together kind of kills the need for small talk.

“So, seen any good movies lately?”

_But then again_. Sam snorts, smiling despite himself.

Neither of them say anything for a while, the food offering up a better-than-usual distraction.

Once Sam and Dean could lean back with the satisfaction of the extremely well-fed, Dean stands and starts gathering the nearly-empty plates together. Sam knows his brother hates to see wasted food as much as he does, but he seriously doubts they could possibly eat any more.

“Come on, Sammy. Gotta pay our due.” Sam guesses he means the dishes, which is only fair in exchange for a breakfast like this one.

His brother is piling the plates into one, impossibly weighty stack, leaving the two, empty glass pitchers – presumably for Sam. Well. _That’s_ not going to happen.

Stepping in before Dean can even start lifting, Sam takes the heavy stack of plates from Dean’s hands.

“Hey! What’re you doin’ gigantor – I’m taking those in!”

“Nope, you were too slow,” Sam calls back, carrying them away from the picnic table. The damn things are even heavier than he’d guessed, but Sam doesn’t train regularly for nothing.

“Fucking show-off,” Dean calls out, trailing behind him, lamely holding the two glass pitchers. Sam grins smugly, flexing just a little for his brother’s benefit.

The two of them head off in the direction of the farm house, shoving each other aside at every opportunity.

-o-

Karen is… not exactly what Sam expected.

The older man in front of him is wearing a black, wide-brimmed cowboy hat – one that he seems to be fond of tipping forward to obscure the top half of his face from view. All Sam can see is a strong jaw with the beginnings of a beard, and Sam can’t tell if the guy’s pleased to see them or not. The open-collar of his worn black denim shirt perfectly frames deep-red and black flames unfurling across his throat. He tries not to stare, eyes flicking down from the tattoo and noticing the way the man’s hand hovers at his hips as if he had a gun slung there.

The man lifts his head slightly and Sam gets a glimpse of piercing, pale-blue eyes that reminds Sam of water bloated corpses lost in swamps. The morning sun is bright and shining but Sam can’t shake the cold trickle travelling down his back.

Sam’s thankful he didn’t tell Dean about his grandmother theory.

“Karen, this is my brother, Sam.” Dean gestures with his handful of glassware as they bring the dishes into the house, introducing Sam as if this entire situation was normal and the man didn’t look as if he could stare death in the face and _win_.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Sam says in his polite-best, not sure if he should be speaking to the rim of the man’s hat, which is shading his eyes, or the point of his chin.

Karen simply tips his hat in acknowledgement; the set line of his mouth remaining unchanged. Apparently, the man doesn’t talk much.

Sam walks a little closer to Dean and they step through the foyer together, and Sam’s first intake of breath is of damp, musty air. The paint peels on the already cracking wood, and the curtains hanging over the windows are heavy with dust.

Dean leads him around the first corner and they walk into one of the best-kept kitchens Sam has ever seen. The appliances are _old_ , and a coal-burner wouldn’t seem out of place in a kitchen like this, but everything _gleams_ as if they repel dirt and rust.

There’s a cutting board on the counter stained a dark red – the only sign that Sam’s stepped into a functioning kitchen and not some sort of museum – and half of a pomegranate with its juice-filled seeds scooped out. It must’ve been for the juice from earlier.

He follows Dean’s example, setting the plates down into the shiny, porcelain sink.

“So what now?” Sam asks, turning to his brother.

“Gotta pay our due,” Dean says.

Sam looks around, then under the sink. “Okay. Where’s the dish soap?”

“You want to pay with dish soap?” Dean asks, eyebrow raised.

“What are you talking about? How else are we going to do the dishes?”

“Sammy, we’re not doing the dishes. _We_ ,” Dean gestures between them, speaking each word slowly, “are on vacation.”

That catches Sam’s attention.

“Vacation? _Now_? Are you crazy?” _Damn it,_ but his brother has the worst self-preservation instincts in the world. Sam being Exhibit-fucking-A of that, which is a guilt-trip for another day.

“Sam,” Dean says with all the authority of his Big Brother voice, the one that Sam hates and loves at the same time. “You need to take it easy. This place is perfect for that. You can put your feet up, curl your hair, whatever you want.”

It’s only fuel to the fire – the days are counting down faster than ever, each moment more crucial than the last and Dean wants to take a goddamn _vacation_. If Dean thinks that Sam is just going to be able to laze around on a lawn chair all day, he’s wrong.

“ _No,_ Dean.” But he’s stopped when Dean’s hand falls on his shoulder. Sam has half a mind to throw it off.

“Look, I’m. I’m worried about you, Sammy,” Dean says, face open and unhappy, his firm hand squeezing the shoulder he’s yet to let go of. He only looks mildly embarrassed at the confession, which goes to show how serious he really is. “You haven’t been sleeping, and I know that because we could probably start keeping ammo in the bags under your eyes. When we’re alone you’re either staring off into space or looking at _me_ like I’m about to disappear. And that last hunt we did? A few days ago? I think _overkill_ is an understatement.”

Normally this would be the last volley through the defense that is forming in Sam’s mind. Dean is so rarely up-front and honest like this, it takes Sam off-guard, but it’s not enough to soothe the frustration building in Sam’s gut.

“It was a vampire! You have to behead them!”

“Yeah! And dead man’s blood usually works better than repeatedly smashing their heads into a cement wall.”

“It –“ His heart stuck in his throat, Sam feels caught out, trapped – he doesn’t feel guilty, _fuck_ no – but he can’t deny what he had done. “It was trying to kill you.”

The case in New Mexico had none of the cold efficiency that Sam hunted with in the months that Dean was dead. The minute the vampire put his hands on Dean, Sam had just _lost_ it. The weapons coated in blood had been knocked away but all Sam could see was red. Sam would have gone after it with a butter knife if that had been in range. The concrete wall was just convenient.

Sam wonders if that’s when Dean decided Sam needed a vacation or if it was _after_ , when Sam had clung to him, still-drenched in the blood and gore of their most recent kill.

He sees Dean’s shoulders slump, and he leans against the edge of the sink, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen you act like that before Sammy. _You_ – you’re - this isn’t about me, okay?”

Fucking typical Dean. It’s not _Sam_ who’s going to be dead and Hell-bound in less than two months. It’s not _Sam_ who’s running out of time (even though – in all the ways that count – he is).

“Dean, I just don’t want us to waste any time looking for –“

“ _No_ , Sam,” Dean’s voice is strained. “We already talked about this.”

_Goddamn it_. Sam’s fist clench with barely restrained anger, and he wants to take it out on something. And if he has to drive out to the nearest crossroads to summon something to fight then he’s going to fucking _do it_. His temper has been so close to the surface these days. They’ve argued about this over and over, but that was before Sam had to live through the Trickster bullshit special.

Dean’s taking “Saving Him” off the table and putting it on a shelf like Sam’s some sort of misbehaving child, and if there’s anything Sam hates more than feeling useless it’s being told what he can and _can’t_ do. He glares outside the kitchen window. A sheep is grazing amongst the horses, and Sam has a fleeting notion of sacrifice -

\- before a warm, rough hand closes over his right fist, fingers trying to wedge between the tightly enclosed space where his nails are biting into his skin.

“Sammy.”

Sam looks up to find his brother looking resolutely at him, there’s still that faint air of embarrassment, but Dean’s eyes are determined. He relaxes his hand, two of Dean’s fingers held loosely in his grip.

“Give it a chance?” _Until you’re better_ , the addition written all over Dean’s face. When Dean doesn’t get a response, he jostles Sam with his elbow. “Come on, I wanted to take you someplace nice for once.”

That familiar smirk curves Dean’s lips, even though Sam can see the anxious tension running through his brother’s body – the way Dean is slanted away from him, hoping to shield himself from possible rejection. A fierce protective instinct in him wants to reassure Dean any and every way he can. He can’t reach over to pull his brother’s mouth to his own, so he settles for squeezing the fingers tucked between his.

Dean’s sideways grin makes Sam smile despite himself, helpless in the face of his stupid, loveable big brother. He rolls his eyes, but Dean just keeps on grinning at him _you’re so easy_.

He’s standing in the middle of an antique kitchen, in some middle-of-nowhere ranch, practically holding hands with Dean.

Life has been stranger.

-o-

On their way out, Dean stops by Karen, who is sitting on the bench of the rotting wooden porch, next to a greyed-out skull, jaw held open and placed on the rail pillar like some off-season Halloween decoration.

Karen’s foggy blue eyes meet Dean’s and he holds up two bony fingers. Despite the cowboy outfit, the man’s hands don’t look like they’ve touched the reins of a horse in the past century.

Dean nods at the man, glancing back at Sam before checking the pockets of his shirt, then his jeans. Sam is distracted by the way Dean pats down his back pockets before fishing out two coins from the front left. The coins are misshapen and small, and they look silver under the uneven spread of green where the metal had given way to oxidation. Dean holds the coins up to show Karen, points at himself, then at Sam, flipping them between his fingers so they catch the light. Sam can barely make out a laurel on the tiny coin’s figurehead.

“Is that from the mausoleum in Virginia?” There had been an old, rich couple obsessed with Ancient Greece, and they had dug beneath their family tomb to create a summoning chamber – Sam still wasn’t sure if they were trying to create a portal into the Underworld or summon Hades himself but when people started disappearing in the name of sacrifices well – that’s when he and Dean had to step in.

“Yup. Nicked them before the thing collapsed. Never know when foreign currency will come in handy.”

Sam doesn’t quite see how the coins come in handy _now_. But at the tip of Karen’s hat, Dean’s walking over and lifting his switchblade out of his cowboy boot.

“Dean, no wait – “ is all Sam manages before the blade swings out and Dean’s slipping the sharp edge through his open palm, closing his bleeding hand over the coins. He holds his hand out and lets the silver pieces fall into the mouth of the goddamn skull like he’s living out the freaking cowboy version of _Pirates of the Caribbean_.

Sam is itching for his own gun, ready to shoot if this is some sort of demon trap, watching as Karen reaches behind the skull and tilts it forward, the teeth clattering as the jaw shuts. With a tip of the hat to both of them, Karen disappears into the house without so much as a word.

There’s no light show. No darkening of the sky. Nothing is clawing its way out of the ground to come eat them, but Sam has seen enough blood magic to know that his brother has just completed a ritual of some kind and it sure as hell isn’t one that _Sam_ ’s familiar with – not one that you should be able to do in this world anyway.

It hasn’t even been ten minutes since Dean asked Sam to _give this place a chance_ and Sam’s already regretting it. He should’ve just punched his brother and dragged him the fuck out of here.

“Dean,” Sam hisses, “what the hell did you just pay for?”

“Our due,” Dean says, repeating the word like this is how normal people pay – like _yes that’ll be $4.99 and I’m going to need your blood on the dotted line, please and thank you._

“Our rent,” Dean clarifies, as if that makes it any better. His brother is standing with his arms crossed, just _daring_ Sam to argue with him, _Take care of Sammy_ mode obvious in his posture.

Dean’s being an idiot. Again. _Our_ rent, he says. Yet Sam wasn’t consulted at all, not that he would’ve approved of what just happened, but Dean just paid in coin and blood for the _both_ of them and you’d really think his brother would just fucking learn at some point. With Dean’s soul still on the line from the _last_ time Dean saw fit to barter for Sam, the whole thing just hits too close to home.

Dean’s like the ever-generous dinner date, constantly pulling out his wallet even as the bills rack up and up and up – food, clothes, school supplies, childhood, _soul_ – no matter how much Sam insists it’s _his_ turn to pay.

“Leave it alone Sam, it’s small-scale mojo stuff compared to what we’re used to. Pay and stay. It’s just the way it is here.”

“Oh, what, no blood-stained money for me? I’m all out of Greek coins do you think he accepts bloody VISA cards?”

Dean ignores him, quickly running down the steps of the porch, Sam following close on his heels.

“We could’ve just stayed in some fancy hotel if you wanted to just kill time! What’d you just do Dean - what is this place? Was that another deal or did you forget that the fucking demons already have dibs on your soul?”

He regrets it as soon as he says it. The words are ash on his tongue and the air in his lungs disappear at the look Dean sends him. Furious. Hurt.

“Sorry,” Sam says hoarsely, swiping a hand across his eyes. He knows the stress has been getting to him, knows that Dean is confused about how Sam’s been acting lately. They’ve been breaking out into arguments all week, and Sam just wants to stop fighting. He can’t lose his brother any sooner than he has to. “I – I -yeah maybe we can use a break.”

Dean nods stiffly. Sam’s counting down the minutes to forgiveness.

-o-

“I see you’ve taken to feeding the livestock.”

Sam startles awake, sitting abruptly with a yelp at the sudden sharp tug at his scalp.

“Fuck, what- “ Still disoriented with sleep ( _body hot beneath his, hotter mouth parting for his tongue -_ ) Sam looks wildly around, scrambling off the dew-damp grass, coming face to face with a woolly sheep, chewing indifferently at a clump of green stalks – and yeah, what looks like a few strands of Sam’s hair.

Goddamn _demon sheep_.

Suddenly to his right, Dean bursts out laughing – absolutely lights up with it, throwing his head back, entire body vibrating with it as his hair catches the sunlight. Sam’s heart stops at the sight of his brother atop a saddled dark bay horse, bowlegs ending in the same cowboy boots that rest easy in the stirrups, hands clutching the reins as he shakes with laughter. Like some sort of mischievous prince.

In that moment, Sam forgets the sheep; he forgets the _world_.

Dean swings off the horse, landing neatly on the ground. There’s a second horse with lighter colouring behind him and Dean cinches the reins together temporarily. Sam’s suddenly reminded of the sharp pain in his head. _Damn it,_ that hurt. Sam sweeps a leg towards Dean, hoping to catch him off-balance but his angle is awkward and Dean blocks it easily.

“Sam, this is Mary,” Dean says, still chuckling. Dean, the bastard, crouches down to pet the thing. Meanwhile, the sheep looks entirely too smug for Sam’s liking.

“Mary?” Sam’s nose scrunches up, regarding the sheep with disdain. The sheep stares right back at him. “Why would you name this thing after mom?” Okay, so he’s a bit grumpy. As Dean’s learned in the past, he’s not very forgiving of impromptu haircuts.

“I didn’t name her, dumbass,” Dean says. “It’s probably after that nursery rhyme – ‘Mary had a Little Lamb’ or something.”

“The _girl’s_ name was Mary, not the sheep’s,” Sam corrects, still eyeing the animal in question with distrust.

“Thanks for that, Little Bo Peep,” Dean says dryly, then points to the book open on Sam’s lap. “Is that Dad’s journal?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam says, almost forgetting that he had it all. He had taken it out of the car to read while Dean had gone to get supplies for the afternoon. Apparently ‘supplies’ meant horses. “I thought I’d read about ‘Adama Ranch’ before, and it’s not like there’s any wifi around here, so I checked dad’s journal. It was a stretch but – Dad actually has a page on it, see?” Sam flips to where he was reading before he took his impromptu nap. “Here.”

Dean shoos Mary away from the pages she was clearly eying, thank God.

“It’s ripped out.”

The page itself is torn at the seams, shreds of paper still clinging to the binding, leaving all but the handwritten title ‘Adama Ranch’ and the beginning of a newspaper article headlined ‘Man Reunited Dead Wife’s Ghost’ coupled with a blurry picture of a forest. The font screams conspiracy journalism, which, in their line of work, isn’t always a bad lead, but their father’s written the word _cremated_ by the title.

“Well. I can see why Dad saved the article.”

Dean nods, expression carefully blank. Sam watches him from the corner of his eye. Dean’s spent more time with the journal than he has and he _knows_ Dean’s read their father’s journal cover to cover, probably the only times Dean’s stayed up to read (outside of cases and comic books – and once, a book full of Shakespearean sonnets that Sam hadn’t returned to the library of a previous town) are the weeks following their father’s death, when anger gave way to grief and all Dean had left of the man were written words on a page. Even then, Sam figures it isn’t the first time Dean’s pored over every word of the book.

Their father may have been absent and obsessed but that only meant he kept meticulous notes; he was determined to pass on as much knowledge about hunting as he could. Sam has no idea what would have caused him to tear out a whole page. It would’ve raised red flags on Dean’s radar too, but his brother’s face still gives nothing away.

Which means he definitely knows something.

“And take a look at this,” Sam turns the remaining scrap of paper over to show Dean the other side of the page, where there’s a single faded underlined word written haphazardly right before the page is torn away.

_ souln _

“So-uhln,” Dean reads aloud.

“It’s cut off,” Sam says, squinting at the page. There aren’t many ways that word can end, but damned if Sam is going to say them out loud in front of Dean.

“So,” Sam starts, grinning at his brother, “You in for a creepy forest ghost hunt?”

Dean frowns, and it’s almost a pout as he looks back at the two horses grazing patiently nearby. It’s too adorable. Sam swings an arm around his brother’s shoulders, “Come on cowboy, it’ll be fun.”

-o-

In the end, Sam lets Dean convince him to at least ride the horses to the edge of the forest. Trouble is, Sam’s never so much as approached a horse before. He’s never had a problem with heights, but it’s entirely different when you’re a good height off the ground, depending on another creature to support you and not buck you off and cripple you for life.

Sam may or may not have been clinging to the neck of his horse while Dean held the reins in his other hand and led the way. In his terrified state, Sam had even entertained the thought of riding with Dean – his arms wrapped around Dean’s waist and shifting behind him as the horse broke into a trot or a gallop or whatever - but no. He’d feel sorry the animal that tried to carry Sam _and_ his brother.

To be short, Dean spends the entire trip laughing his ass off - which is completely humiliating but Sam is willing to take the brunt of it if it means Dean isn’t pissed at him anymore.

Dean helps him dismount (read: struggle) and he almost flattens his brother when his foot gets caught in the stirrup. His brother just keeps right on laughing.

“Aw come on Sammy, I thought you were good at everything,” Dean says in that tone of voice that makes Sam wonder if his brother truly believes what he’s saying. It’s something that Dean’s said in passing a few times before, but always with that tinge of pride that he can’t hide.

“Not all of us are _naturally_ _inclined_ –“ Sam looks pointedly at Dean’s bowlegs, “ – for these kinds of things.”

“Fuck you man, some of us got to _live life_ while you wasted away in a dusty classroom.” Dean drags his head down into a noogie that Sam’s bent almost in half for, as he tries to fight his brother off, gasping for breath between laughter.

The path they followed from the ranch continued straight into the forest, the branches of two tall trees meeting and curving overtop the path creating a pseudo-archway marking the entrance.

“We can leave them here, they’ll be okay. They know how to get back on their own,” Dean says, unhooking the picnic basket and a pack from his saddle before pocketing a flashlight. They had doubled back to the farmhouse to find that Karen had prepared dinner for them (with the breakfast they had, they couldn’t even _entertain_ the thought of lunch), all wrapped up and ready to go.

Sam doesn’t question it, just awkwardly pets the flank of his horse before following Dean into the forest. He tugs the pack away from Dean and shoulders it himself, pretending not to notice the grateful look Dean sends his way.

Stepping past the edge of illuminated grass and onto the shaded grounds, the temperature immediately drops a few degrees, making Sam glad he grabbed his jacket from the impala too. He can see the path winding through the woods, following a small stream. Light filters through the branches that reach high above them, casting the world into a half-night, with bright patches of sun here and there.

It’s an entirely different world. The trees press close to the path, overhanging branches arching over their heads.

Everything’s so quiet around them, lacking the typical sounds of wildlife that it should’ve been eerie, but it’s peaceful. Sam almost feels safe.

Dean is walking beside him, quiet as ever.

“You’ve been here before.”

“Huh?” There’s surprise on Dean’s face for a moment, before his brows furrow and his mouth tightens into a guilty line. “It was uh – it was because of Dad.”

Sam nods. He figured as much.

“Dad was the one who told me about this place. He and Mom found this place during their honeymoon road trip across the States. He even used to take us here.”

Sam’s eyebrows lift. “He did?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, when we were kids.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were like, four. Or five. We only came here a couple of times.”

Sam’s eyebrow lifts. Aside from Bobby’s house, it’s rare for them to even visit the same _town_ twice.

“Why?”

“Dad said,” Dean starts, then pauses, letting out a whoosh of breath like he’s been winded. “It had to do with Mom.”

Sam is quiet then; if it involved their mother, he’s not sure how their dad ever got himself to _leave_ this place. “Then why’d he stop coming here?” _Why did he rip out that page?_

“I have no idea. But he – he was weird after. Remember time Dad said we couldn’t share a bed anymore? It was storming outside and you were crying and crying.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t remember exactly what happened but he vaguely recalls their Dad coming into their room soaking wet, angry and abrupt, trying to pull Sam away from where he was hiding under Dean’s covers. Something about him being old enough to sleep on his own. But Sam clearly remembers sneaking into back Dean’s bed despite what their Dad had said. It was one of the only rules their father made that Dean let him disobey.

“I’m pretty sure that was the last time he brought us here.”

It makes sense, but what Dean remembers – the road to the ranch, the blood ritual, Karen - isn’t from the vague recollections of a nine year old.

They fall silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts. It’s not until the third time Dean reaches out to grab his arm that he notices he’s being led around stray roots and rotting logs. From the way Dean’s eyes are distracted, watching the gaps in the trees, looking for movement – he doesn’t think _Dean_ is quite aware of what he’s doing either.

He catches Dean’s shoulder in time to guide him around a low branch, and his brother blinks back at him, throwing a quick ‘thanks’ at him before moving ahead.

Sam probably shouldn’t feel half as pleased as he does.

“I saw something. Earlier. At breakfast,” Sam blurts out. “It looked faint, like flickering light. Like a spirit.”

“You saw what Dad wrote though. That lady was cremated,” Dean reminds him. “Can’t be her ghost.”

“So maybe something else is going on. He said it was about Mom. And he cared enough to hide it from us.”

They reach a small clearing of trees, a fire pit right in the centre, below the circular gap in the tree tops that gives a clear view of the evening sky above. There’s a fallen log a few convenient feet away from the campfire, next to a stack of firewood.

It’s a good a place as any to stop for dinner, and Dean’s already crouched down, pulling matches from their pack and trying to start a fire. Sam starts unpacking the picnic basket, the full blast of sweet-smelling barbeque hitting him in the face as soon as he opens the wicker flaps. He takes out two bottles of beer, two full slabs of ribs, a platter of brisket and a basket of golden-brown fries and chicken wings on the side. And in the middle, in its own box – a still-warm apple pie.

“Let’s stay here forever,” Dean groans as soon as Sam unboxes the pie.

Settling on the log next to the campfire, they tuck in pretty quickly, separating the food between them on the provided plates. It’s a wonder everything had fit in the basket.

“You’re not worried about him fattening us up to eat or anything?” Sam asks, giving up on utensils and using his hands.

Dean thinks on it a moment, chewing his mouthful of potatoes, barbecue sauce smeared off the corner of his lips, piece of pie already in hand – then reaches for seconds before he’s even cleared half his plate. “Nope.”

Sam’s heart skips at the dash of pink tongue across smacking lips. Suddenly, he’s ultra-aware of the way Dean’s white shirt is almost translucent with sweat from the day’s heat, teasing Sam with flashes of skin where the fabric is damp and pressing close.

With his plate in his lap, he can watch his brother covertly, the way he did when he was thirteen, studying for American History at the kitchen table and Dean was the shiniest thing in the room. The class had given him his first C+ ever on a quiz, and Dean bought him ice cream to cheer him up – ruffling his hair, teasing him with misplaced pride, _Get distracted by something pretty, Sammy?_

Sam knows he’s wrong inside – that he’s twisted a love into something despicable and sick but he couldn’t help himself. By the time he realized it, he was so wrapped up in Dean he couldn’t untangle himself even if he wanted to.

Sam has always thrived under Dean’s attention, he was Dean’s _little brother_. Even all the macho, hide-behind-his-jokes posturing his brother threw out there couldn’t hide the fact that he was Dean’s everything, and it made him feel (ashamedly, guiltily, sinfully) powerful, even back then.

There was a quiet, smug joy in him when Dean repeatedly chose him over anyone else – except maybe their father – but even then, Dean would try to make it up to him afterwards. As far as twelve year old Sam was concerned, he was on top of the world, and there weren’t any limits in sight.

The night Sam first caught Dean with a girl, he’d felt like someone had ripped the rug from beneath him, and his stomach had boiled with anguish and choked him with jealousy as he watched the way Dean’s hands ran over the girl’s back, over her ass. Gentle, like he was holding someone precious. The way that girl made Dean _sound_ – quiet, hot noises he had never known his brother could make. The deep thorough kisses that Dean pressed to soft-looking skin, to pink, parted lips. Sam burned up with the want of it, leaving bitter desolation with the awareness that he could never touch. Never have _that_.

He doesn’t think it’d be the _guy_ thing – he’s seen the heated looks Dean gets in bars, on the street – he’s seen the looks Dean gives right back. He remembers walking a little closer to Dean, trying to send _back off_ glares to any potential ‘suitors’ like some possessive boyfriend. Not that anyone would believe that the skinny kid was with Dean like _that_.

Sam sometimes wonders about those Stanford years; wonders where those heated looks led when Sam wasn’t around to ward men away from his brother.

As Sam grew up, he had hoped Dean would send those looks in his direction – hoped and wished and dreamed until he was seventeen (almost eighteen), and still getting his hair ruffled, still getting sidelined, forever the little brother in Dean’s eyes.

Irony always did cling to Sam like some backwoods voodoo curse.

Over the years, he’s learned to rein in the want, the need- to keep his hands to himself when all he wants is to reach out and touch – to keep his distance when all he needs is the heat of that tempting mouth.

The only infraction – and Sam laughs to himself because it doesn’t even fucking _count_ – happened on their hundredth damn Tuesday in that God forsaken town.

And Dean doesn’t remember, just like he doesn’t remember how he died over and over again, doesn’t remember how Sam _kissed_ him. How Sam had woken up in that motel bed, the residual smell of Dean’s arterial blood still clinging to his lungs, and tackled Dean right back into the bed he had been sitting on.

_He can’t die if we stay in bed,_ Sam had thought desperately. He can’t die here.

Sam kissed Dean as if he could seal the life of him down, kept it stoppered and safe with merely his mouth.

And yeah, maybe he was every bit the princess that Dean made him out to be - but Sam – Sam had thought for one shining second that Dean had started to kiss _back_ – felt the lips part beneath his, the tilt of his head upwards, closer – before Dean went shockingly still, body stiff and unyielding as a board before he spasmed, blood running from his nose and awareness already fading from his green eyes as he convulsed in Sam’s arms.

Sam woke up the next day – still Tuesday, crying.

-o-

“Sam? Sammy!” It takes a moment for Sam to realize that Dean’s shaking him. He blinks the memories away, reaching out to stop Dean from trying to rattle his brain right out of his skull - his heart’s already trying to burst out of his ribcage.

“Sorry – I’m. I’m okay.”

“You fucking scared me, Sam.”

_Yeah, I scare myself too_. He realizes then that his face is wet; he tries to wipe his cheeks dry with his shirt sleeve taking deep breaths. Dean’s never handled tears well.

He closes his eyes, which is a mistake, because all he sees is Dean dead or Dean dying and he can’t help the shaking that wracks through him.

Dean’s in front of him in an instant, hands around his face, pressing forehead-to-forehead. When he speaks, it echoes loud in Sam’s ears.

“Hey – hey, hey now. Breathe with me, Sammy. I got you.”

Sam’s hands fall to Dean’s shoulders, and he struggles for breath when he feels them rise, then forces an exhale as they fall. But his head’s too full of terror, still stuck on _needDeanneedDean_ and Dean’s too close now – and he can’t possibly resist falling into the heat of the man in front of him.

Sam adjusts his grip to Dean’s forearm, dragging fingertips along the underside until he feels Dean’s rapid pulse, warm and alive. Their noses almost touching, Sam can feel the flutter of Dean’s long eyelashes and his soft puffs of breath blowing across his lips.

When he meets his brother’s dark green eyes, closing the distance between their mouths is not so much a decision but a compulsion.

It’s just as right as he remembers.

Dean is rigid and tense, so Sam moves gently, coaxing Dean’s lips from their shocked state. Sliding his hands up along Dean’s arms and shoulders, Sam reaches out to cup the curve of Dean’s face. He brushes his thumb across stubble, then over smooth, flushed and freckled cheeks.

Sam keeps kissing Dean, following Dean’s mouth when his brother tries to duck away, relentlessly keeping them connected.

He pulls back a little when the need to breathe becomes too much. Dean’s eyes slip open and he sees all of his fear and shame reflected back at him.

“Sam, we shouldn’t –“

But Sam doesn’t have anything else to say to his brother. Sam already knows every single reason why they _shouldn’t_. Dean would never be convinced with words.

He runs his hand deliberate and slow through Dean’s short hair, rocking his hips up against Dean, who’s crouched between his bent knees. He grinds in again, groaning loudly when he realizes Dean’s half-hard.  Sam isn’t prepared when Dean surges up against him, hands finding Sam’s waist, trapping them in a strong grip and hauling him even closer, and Sam almost falls right off the log. Dean’s mouth opens up for him, and Sam takes the invitation, tongue slipping in heady hot and urgent.

_Finallyfinallyfinally_. Sam’s dizzy with the need coursing through him.

“Sammy! Don’t go tha’ way!”

Sam and Dean jump apart at the voice. They both stare wide-eyed as a floppy-haired toddle runs by them, chased by a grinning freckle-faced child missing one of his front teeth.

“Dean-uh! Catch me catch me!” toddler Sam screams, delighted by the chase.

“Yeah, yeah. Jus’ wai’ ‘til I catch my breaff, Sammy. You’re too fast.” Young Dean says, clearly playing up the gasping and the wheezing for the younger boy’s behalf. He flickers in and out, emitting a soft white glow like static off a black and white TV.

The toddler lets his guard down and wanders too close. Still feigning breathlessness, the older boy takes the opportunity to grab him, arms around the tiny waist as the other boy shrieks in surprise and laughter. “Gotcha!”

The two disappear in a wisp of fog, leaving the present versions of Sam and Dean alone in the clearing. Bewildered, Sam looks to his brother.

“Dean…? Was that -?”

Sam expected shock but instead, Dean looks guiltier than ever, eyes lowered and shamed-faced at being caught necking with his own little brother – by their younger selves no less.

“That was us.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice thick with shame. “They –“ He makes an aborted gesture with his hand.

“You’ve seen them before.”

“Once or twice.” There are so many questions Sam wants to ask, but he can already see Dean’s thought process – _I’m sick, I’m supposed to be taking care of him_ – but to hell with that – his brother had kissed him _back_. No magical reset this time. This was for keeps and Sam’s not letting it go ever again.

“Wanted it, wanted to kiss you for so long,” Sam whispers again and again into Dean’s ear, lips against the faint scar along his ear’s outer curve, offering reassurance, telling Dean he’s okay. “I don’t care if they were the Ghosts of Childhoods Past sent to warn me off, I want this, I want _you_.”

“Let’s pack up,” Dean says finally, voice hoarse. He pulls away from the circle of Sam’s arms and Sam lets him.

-o-

It’s dark by the time they get back to the cabin, the only light coming from stars peppered across the wide black sky. Dean hasn’t said a word the entire way back, and Sam’s halfway to going crazy. He has no idea what his brother is thinking, and trying to force him into a conversation _now_ would be nothing short of disastrous but he knows the longer he lets Dean stew over this in his head, the worse it’s going to be. He tries not to hover too much, but it’s even harder to resist touching Dean now. The walls have fallen and Sam has no interest in putting them back up again.

Dean walks through the cabin entrance and right into the bathroom, shutting the door quickly and cutting Sam off half a step behind him. Sam’s stomach drops.

There’s nothing to do but wait for his brother to stop freaking out, Sam looks around the room, checking the salt lines. There’s a day calendar on one of the end tables that Sam hadn’t seen earlier. He automatically moves to throw it out, but the date catches his eye. He freezes.

_Monday_. It’s _Monday_ night.

Which means tomorrow is – Sam immediately buries the thought, it’s bad enough that he sounds like a bad _Sesame Street_ episode, but he should _know better_. It’s almost been a week since he managed to get out of that godforsaken town but he can’t – he just can’t –

He yanks the front door open and pitches the day calendar as far as he can, pages tearing off as it whips through the air and Sam only feels a twinge of guilt for littering.

“Sam?” He turns around to find his brother, put-back-together, showered and ready for sleep except – Dean is holding the blankets he uses to sleep on the couch. Suddenly all plans for giving Dean space are thrown out the window – right with the calendar.

_No_.

“Dean,” Sam breathes. “Dean can you –“ He’s not sure he can ask for this – if it’s taking it a step too far too fast. If he scares Dean off, he might not get another chance at this for the next _decade_.

Sam shuts his eyes, words rushed and tripping over each other, “Can you – sleepwithmetonight?”

Dean is taken aback, clearly hesitating. “I don’t think that’s  -“

“I promise not to – I promise,” Sam says lamely. He can keep his hands to himself tonight. If it gets Dean in his bed and Sam doesn’t have to wake up on Tuesday alone. At this point, Dean’s either going to reject him outright or make fun of him, and Sam isn’t sure which would be worse. Dean looks past Sam, and out the door, where the loose pages of calendar are scattered across the field.

Without a word, Dean takes the green-grey blanket and pillow from the couch and throws it next to Sam’s own pillow on the bed. The relief and gratitude that washes through Sam is overwhelming. He tries not to stare too obviously at his brother, who’s wearing only boxers and a thin dark shirt and climbing into _his_ bed.

The _pull_ that Sam feels may as well be physical, and he finds himself taking an unconscious step forward to the bed before shaking himself out of it. He _promised_. Quickly closing the front door, he tries looking anywhere _but_ the bed.

“I’m gonna brush my teeth,” he mumbles, rushing off. Dean grunts sleepily in response.

By the time he gets out, Dean is lying on his stomach under the blankets, side of his face pressed to the pillow where he’s tucked one of his arms. Each part of his body keeping to his own side of the bed as much as possible. His breathing is already deep and slow, and Sam can’t seem to take his eyes off of him.

His brother doesn’t move in response to the dip of the bed, but Sam still eases himself gently down, lying on his back, face turned towards Dean. The bed isn’t quite big enough to give them a lot of elbow room, so Sam’s arm is brushing oh-so-closely to Dean’s side. Sam feels the proximity like lightning charging his bones.

It’s too warm under the covers but he can’t bring himself to care, and he’s lulled to sleep by the sounds of his brother’s rhythmic breathing.

-o-

Sam comes to awareness slowly, layers of sleep peeling off one at a time. There’s sun heavy on his eyelids, the faint smell of sweat, gel and a vague spiciness right under his nose. He opens his eyes, registering the weight in his hand, and the warm comfort holding the panic at bay in his chest.

At some point during the night, Dean had migrated the short distance between them and wound up curled next to him, the soft spikes of his hair tickling the sensitive curve beneath Sam’s chin. He’s so close that it’s a miracle Sam didn’t wake up clinging to him like he used to as a child.

It’s the first time in a week that he’s woken up without nightmares chasing his sleep and it’s the first time in _years_ that he’s woken up hand-in-hand with his brother. He wishes he could see Dean’s face at this angle, wishes he could see Dean as he should be – relaxed and innocent.

Sam’s too scared to move, Dean’s hand burning up in his. He curls his fingers, feeling the curve of metal around his brother’s finger. Sparks of longing sends shivers along his back – everything he wants right next to him. Without removing his hand from Dean’s, he pads at the ring, rotating it idly – the way his brother does when he’s restless.

Dean has the enviable ability to fall asleep anywhere, at the drop of a hat, but years of training have also taught him to sleep light. Sam isn’t surprised when Dean jerks awake at the soft touch, but it does make him pull his hand back, dodging the reach of his brother’s arms as he stretches and yawns.

Sam wants to reach out and pull Dean in closer, but he doesn’t know what reaction he’d get. If Dean’s retreated into the depths of denial during the night or if he’s past hesitation and just regrets kissing back, regretting it all. Or if he had just been playing along for Sam’s benefit.

Dean can be a jerk, but he isn’t cruel - no matter how he felt about the kiss, he would have seen the fear in Sam’s face, and acted in whatever way he deemed best for _Sam_. What would it matter to Dean if he was uncomfortable, as long as Sam was okay? _What would it matter to Dean if he was dead, as long as Sam was alive?_ And the kiss –

Did his brother even have it in him to reject Sam? Dean’s had one foot in hell ever since he made the deal. Sam knows he _wants_ to be saved, but he doesn’t actually believe he will be. He doesn’t believe in Sam. Pain bursts through his chest like his heart’s being carved out. What if he’s just doing this to appease Sam because he thinks hey – _I’m going to Hell soon anyway?_

Sam sits up, ice in his veins, and Dean takes advantage of the freed up space to sprawl out further, stretching like a cat.

Before Dean can fully awaken, Sam scrambles into the bathroom – their apparent neutral ground – and locks himself in. He’s safe from rejection in here but being separated from Dean by even a door’s width is setting a nagging itch under his skin.

He strips his clothes off, jumping into the shower without checking the temperature first. It’s freezing, but he doesn’t care. Sam resigns himself to shivering, still glancing at the door every few seconds, listening hard for a knock or a voice or _anything_.

It’s not until he has the soap in hand that he realizes that he’s half-hard and has been for a while. He pictures Dean on the other side of the door, lazing in their bed, soaking up the warmth from Sam’s side. One slide of his wet, closed fist, then another, then the image slips and the walls are green and Dean is still on the bed but there’s blood all over his face – and Sam jolts his hand away, pressing his forehead against cool tile, breathing heavy and loud.

In the next minute the shower’s off and Sam is clothed, the back of his shirt damp from where he hadn’t towelled himself off properly. Sam grabs for the doorknob and nearly pulls the bathroom door off its hinges in his rush to open it.

His heart drops.

The bed is empty, sheets and blankets as rumpled as he had left it. Dean’s duffle remains untouched in the corner, but the worn clothes that had been thrown atop the bag are gone and Sam’s pair of hiking boots are alone by the front door.

_Fuck_.

Without bothering to grab socks he shoves his boots onto his feet and runs out the door in time to see a faraway figure dismount from a horse and walk into the forest.

Sam doesn’t think, just breaks into a run across the field, and all he wants is to catch up to Dean. The horse must have been grazing nearby because the corral’s in the opposite direction – which is perfectly fine with Sam; his long legs and strides quickly eating up the distance between the cabin and the forest. He’s not sure how much time’s passed when he reaches the mouth of the forest, ready to keep following the path straight to his brother but he’s forced to dig in his heels when he sees a single, white sheep blocking the entrance.

He makes a move to go around her, but Mary only looks balefully at him before turning around to head deeper into the forest. Sam gets the odd sense that he’s supposed to follow her, but like hell is he going to listen to a sheep. Especially not this potentially demonic sheep that eats hair.

“Look, I don’t have time for this, I have to find Dean.” His impatience colours his tone and he tries to side-step the animal.

With a flash, the sheep’s eyes go unnaturally bright and suddenly the entire forest erupts into chaos. Sam stumbles back, blinded by the sudden glow around him as hundreds of ghostly figures appear around him in a cacophony of sound and light – dozens of snippets of conversations all happening at once. He has to lift a hand to shield his eyes, letting them adjust before he realizes that many of them are paired off - holding hands, laughing or in some form of embrace, walking or running past him without sparing him a single glance. He and the sheep stand right in the middle of the mess of moving figures, like the centre of the storm; the sheep eerily calm and still staring right at him. He feels like he’s watching twenty different movies all at once and he strains to catch even one string of dialogue.

“John!” a gleeful voice shouts above the noise.

Sam turns in time to see a luminescent woman runs towards him and right _through_ him, reflexively cringing as she passes.

“Wait for me, silly goose,” the ghost says, slowing to a stop next to a very familiar looking man and taking his transparent hand in hers. Sam sways on the spot, watching the woman he’s only ever seen in pictures kiss the man that could only be Sam’s father. Both of them looking beautiful and carefree as people are meant to when they’re young.

His mother’s curls fall into her face, an undeniable love in her eyes as she looks at his father. John’s hair is combed back and clean-shaven. He’s smiling as his arms wraps around his wife, swaying gently as her feet are lifted slightly off the ground. It’s like looking back in time.

Mary is whispering something into John’s ear, placing her hands delicately above her stomach and his father’s face turns comically surprised before she’s nodding enthusiastically and leaping back into his arms.

Tears sting at Sam’s eyes as he watches the family that he lost, while a hollow pang in his chest reminds him that Dean is still missing.

As soon as the thought comes to mind the happy couple vanishes in a swirl of fog, taking the commotion of everyone else along with them, leaving a lone figure standing with his back to Sam. The sudden silence rings in Sam’s ears and his eyes strain to re-adjust to the low light again. The man gives off the same white, static glow as the others; his wide shoulders hidden by a leather jacket he’s still trying to grow into.

“Dean,” Sam says, louder than he means to, but Dean doesn’t turn around. Mary the sheep trots over to his brother’s side, pausing before looking up at Dean expectantly.

“Heh,” Sam catches Dean’s wry grin in profile as his brother reaches down to pet Mary, transparent hands passing right through the wool. His brother looks young - with the pretty boy face that he used to complain about in his teenage years - but not in a way that Sam remembers. His hair is longer, and there are bandages stuck over his brother’s left ear. “I can’t believe I’m talking to a sheep but… you haven’t seen my Dad lately, have you?”

With a start, Sam realizes that this must be Dean while Sam was away at Stanford, when their father left Dean to hunt alone. With all the crazy stories his brother told him about his solo hunts, Sam had pictured his brother having the time of his life, enjoying his own chance at freedom. Seeing the sad smile on Dean’s face now though – Sam really should have known better. Mary looks at Dean then back at Sam, before continuing further into the forest, his brother in tow.

Sam falls into step with Dean and Mary. Occasionally, Dean’s hand would swing into his, passing right through it – but Sam jumps each time anyway. Watching the lonely expression on his brother’s face, the twist of anger in his gut is nothing new. He’s just not sure who he’s angrier at - his father, or himself.

He almost keeps right on walking without realizing that Dean’s suddenly stopped.

“Sammy?” The ghost is at the edge of the clearing, falling to one knee, the way that Dean does to bring himself to eye-level with the kids they interview. Dean’s eyes are wide and confused before crumpling into a watery half-smile, sitting back on his heels as his eyes follow something Sam can’t see. After a moment, he straightens up to stand, running the back of his hand across his face before fading away.

“They’re like memories. I think.” Sam jumps, whipping around to find Dean – _his_ Dean – sitting in a tree a few feet away. He’s haphazardly dressed in clothes from the day before, shirt rumpled and jeans bunched over his boots like he just jammed them on. He looks lost and almost as young as the Dean that Sam had been following. Sam can’t bring himself to look away. “It has to be ancient magic – remnants of the Old Gods or something. Why else would a Gatekeeper like Karen be around? The forest remembers the souls who’ve been here. And… keeps them. Or at least, imprints of them. Like its own collection of home movies or something.”

Sam recalls the cut-off word in the journal, dozens of glowing figures hugging and kissing around him – their parents.

“I think it might be pickier than that. Everyone was – they were –“ Sam just can’t bring himself to say _soulmates_. “They really loved each other,” he finishes lamely.

“Yeah but did anybody else look like _brothers_ to you?”

A terrifying thought occurs to Sam, suddenly – _their_ Dad _must have seen them and –_ Dean makes a choked noise, staring out into the clearing, ears turning steadily red. Sam looks over his shoulder, and sees _them_ from last night, Sam glowing that eerie white, holding his brother’s face between his hands as they kissed. He feels warmth pool in his gut as yesterday’s Dean presses forward into Sam’s mouth, almost pushing Sam right off the log as they buck into each other.

Dean’s face is as red as a tomato now, visibly flustered.

 “Sammy! Don’t go tha’ way!” exclaims a familiar voice. Sure enough, their younger versions are back, running after each other through the woods like the forest is playing a Winchester Marathon. Dean’s face falls right back into the same expression Sam caught earlier, the same heartbreaking watery-eyed half-smile.

He wonders how many times Dean’s watched them chase after each other.

“I think you’ve made your point,” Dean calls down, and Sam’s confused for a moment before he realizes Dean’s talking to _Mary_. Yesterday’s version of themselves disappear, right along with their child selves, and Mary blinks at them, eyes darkened and back to normal. With one final _bah,_ she turns back the way they had come, leaving Sam with his treed brother.

“Aren’t you a little old to be climbing trees?” Sam asks, trying to defuse the tension between them as his brother drops down beside him.

Dean paces away from him, hand in his hair, searching for words.

“Look. I fucked up, Sammy,” Dean says, voice scraped raw. “I was supposed to take care of you. But I let you –  you were dea - you were so goddamn _cold_.”

“Dean.” With his brother in arm’s reach and sounding so damn _broken_ , Sam can’t help the way he crowds Dean up against the tree, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face into his brother’s neck.

“And you were supposed to be okay. Without me,” Dean continues in that same pained whisper. “You’re supposed to be happy and all – my goody-two-shoes-loves-everyone-never-hurt-a-fly brother. Like before – not like, like _this_.” _You weren’t supposed to kiss me_.

“I wanted you to know about this place. Before I – before time’s up. In case it helped. For after.” Dean leans into Sam, “I want you to be okay, Sammy.”

Sam’s grip on his brother tightens.

“You’re an idiot. You honestly think I’d be remotely okay without you?”

“You were okay. You were doing _great_. At Stanford.”

“There’s a difference between us being separated, and you being _dead_ , Dean.”

His brother’s mumble of _is there?_ is so quiet Sam almost misses it.

He’s shaking with the pain of it all – losing his brother, then getting him back just so he can witness him do his best impression of Dead Man Walking - he doesn’t think he can deal with so much goddamn heartbreak. Soon, Sam is crying right into his brother’s shoulder, Dean combing a hand through Sam’s hair, like he did when they were kids.

“I’m going to fucking save you, how many times do I have to say it?” he says, voice thick with tears. He doesn’t care what it takes, if he has to take down the whole damn world to do it - Dean doesn’t get to save his soul while throwing his own away. Sam isn’t that little boy getting chased by his brother anymore.

“I know,” Dean murmurs. “I know Sammy.”

Sam pulls back enough to meet his brother’s reddened eyes.

“And this? This isn’t because of your Deal. I didn’t do it because of the Trickster either.” Sam saysas firmly as he can through the lump in his throat. He needs to convince Dean of this. He needs Dean to believe him. “ _I_ wanted to. Just me.”

“We can’t –“

“You kissed me back,” Sam reminds him gently, tilting his head so that his mouth hovers over Dean’s. He makes no move to close the gap, even when heated breath fans across his lips.  

“Doesn’t make it right,” Dean says under his breath, like it’s not the first time he’s said it. Like he’s still trying to convince himself.

“ _God_ , I want,” Sam pushes closer to Dean, not bothering to hide his arousal. His words falling right onto Dean’s lips, but he doesn’t close the distance between them. Not yet. “I want to get you back to the cabin. Strip you naked, except for maybe – these –“ Sam taps a foot against Dean’s boot, and Dean is rapt, hasn’t looked away once and Sam is so fucking lost in the dark taking over the green of Dean’s eyes that he couldn’t stop talking even if he wanted to. “Push you down into the bed and - and _fuck_. Fucking convince you.”

“Convince me what?” Dean asks, mouth brushing against Sam’s as he speaks.

“That I’m never letting you go.”

Dean’s lip crash against his and there’s tongue, and there’s teeth and it’s everything and Sam’s stops thinking beyond _this_ and _want_ and _need_.

-o-

As soon as Dean’s back hits the wall, Sam is falling into him, covering his body with his own. He brackets Dean’s head with his arms, feeling the brush of soft hair brush against them. Dean’s shirt comes off easily, pants and boxers already lost somewhere by the front door. Sam leans in, hovering just above Dean’s mouth, trying to fit against Dean’s body as close as possible, his jeans rubbing against Dean’s bare legs, and each heavy breath pressing his brother’s naked chest to his. He shifts his stance, and his foot bumps along the rounded toe of Dean’s new boots, causing Sam to shudder at the reminder.

His desire drives him now, drawing his mouth to Dean’s tempting lips, as he threads a hand through his brother’s short hair, pulling and tilting Dean’s face towards him.

Dean has both fists tight in Sam’s open shirt, clinging and moaning into the kiss. Sam manoeuvers his hips into Dean’s, further trapping him against the wall, as Dean bucks and whimpers from the rough scrape of Sam’s jeans against his bare cock.

“My clothes,” Sam says, words lost into Dean’s mouth, but Dean rushes to comply, slipping his hands down to unbutton the rest of Sam’s shirt and letting it fall off, before sliding down to his knees – their bodies still so close that his softsoftsoft lips skim Sam’s chest as he goes – mouthing at Sam through his jeans. Entire body on fire, Sam steadies himself against the wall, looking down at Dean while he undoes the button of his pants – every push of his lips against his dick is as tantalizing as the sight of Dean kneeling in front of him. Dean looks up at him, green eyes dark and determined, as he catches the zipper with his teeth, not looking away for a second as he pulls it down.

_Jesus,_ Sam has to physically remind himself to breathe. His brother’s never been shy about sex, but he’s going at Sam like he’s got something to prove, to make up for, and Sam doesn’t have the control to stop him. His hand is back in Dean’s hair, cupping the side of Dean’s face.

Dean edges his fingers underneath the elastic of Sam’s boxers and jeans, easing them down mid-thigh, and Dean drops a kiss to the tip of Sam’s hard cock. That simple touch has Sam’s fingers grasping, trying to find purchase amongst the strands of Dean’s hair as Dean slips his mouth around the head, sucking once, twice, before moving lower, tongue pressed firmly against the underside, then doing it all over again.

He thinks his vision could white out at any second, it feels so good. One of Dean’s hands grips the edge of Sam’s hips, pulling it towards him, and sliding more of his cock into Dean’s mouth. Sam’s brain does short circuit a little at that, and Dean does it twice more before Sam finally gets the idea.

He isn’t careful on his first thrust, brain still catching up, and Dean ends up choking and pulling back. Sam gets a pinch in the ass but the idea of it – hell, the _feel_ of Dean’s throat fluttering around him – is hotter than it has any right to be, and Sam can only find it in him to be guilty for a moment before thrusting back in more carefully.

And Dean is still wearing those goddamn cowboy boots.

_Fuck_.

Sam has to stop himself before he loses it too soon, regretful as he pulls out of Dean’s mouth. He hauls Dean to his feet and kisses him against the wall, Dean’s tongue finding and tangling with his. Sam’s hands glide along freckled sides and hips before squeezing Dean’s ass and swallowing down the accompanying groan. He shifts so that his hands are behind Dean’s upper thighs and lifts – pinning Dean to the wall with his upper body and forcing him to wrap those legs – cowboy-boot-clad feet and all – around his waist.

His fingers reach over, tapping on the ring of muscle and causing Dean to buck up against him, his own hard cock sliding against Sam’s. “Want it against the wall, big brother?” Sam whispers low into Dean’s ear, enjoying the way Dean shudders at his words, heel of the boots digging into the small of Sam’s back, trying to bring him closer. Dean’s desperation makes Sam a little braver, mouth a little looser. “Did you wear the boots on purpose, Dean? Nice little story about Mom and Dad, when really you just wanted a nice, big cock to ride?”

“Fuck you,” Dean says, back of his head hitting the wall as he grinds his hips again. “Don’t fucking talk about them.”

Chuckling, Sam tightens his hold on Dean, his brother a pleasant heavy weight in his arms as he carries him over to the bed, letting him fall onto his back and pushing him down into the sheets.

“Not gonna fuck you dry, Dean.” He backs away, already missing his brother’s body heat, kicking his pants off the rest of the way. He quickly grabs his brother’s duffle and digs through it until he finds the bottle of lube he knew Dean keeps hidden in there. The bottle’s half-empty and Sam has a momentary flash of jealousy, thinking about Dean with other people.

He’s pouring it over his fingers, warming it between his hands as he stalks back to the bed, moving between his brother’s spread legs hanging over the side of the bed. Dean’s breathing heavily, hard and watching Sam with so much heat and anticipation and _love_ that Sam can’t bring himself to care about the others. _No one else fucking matters_.

Sam eases a slick finger into Dean, wanting to explode just from the soft, tight heat beneath and around his fingertip. He adds another, loving the sharp stutter of Dean’s hips against his hand. Sam crooks his fingers, and Dean jerks up, mouth falling open on a moan. So Sam does it again. And again – twisting his fingers and sliding a third in, and thrusts up, involuntarily kicking out with his leg as he writhes.

“Sam, _please_.”

He pulls his fingers out, using them to align and steady himself as he slowly pushes into Dean. Dean’s legs wrap around him again, the heels of the boots sharp and intent on making permanent indents in Sam’s lower back. Sam doesn’t stop until he’s fully surrounded by the warm, tight clutch of his brother’s body. He tries to take a moment to breathe, but Dean is already moving, arching into him, and doing his best to rock back onto Sam’s cock.

“Dean, oh God, just hold on –“

Sam starts a steady rhythm of thrusting, drawing out small breathy noises from Dean. He gets his hands underneath Dean’s knees, unhooking the Dean’s legs from around him before pushing Dean’s knees up against his chest, almost folding his brother in half and resting the shaft of the boots on his shoulders. Dean’s fingers card through his hair, clenching tight during particularly rough thrusts, trying to pull Sam in even closer, neck straining to bring their lips together. Sam tilts his hips up, thrusting in again until Dean’s body jolts beneath his, and he swivels his hips into that exact spot, listening to Dean moan so sweetly into his mouth, Sam’s head bracketed by leather.

Suddenly Dean’s left boot is tapping impatiently on the side of his head, hands on his biceps trying get Sam to turn over. Sam follows the movement, rolling onto his side and onto his back, as Dean settles on top of him, cock sliding a little deeper into him with the new position. Dean’s head is thrown back, the arch of his neck too tempting to pass up, and Sam sits up so that they’re chest to chest, and he’s biting down into Dean’s wild pulse, Dean shuddering in his lap.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam chokes out, as Dean starts to ride him, knees folded on either side of Sam, hips lifting and lowering themselves roughly onto Sam. All he can do is meet him thrust for thrust, one arm around Dean’s waist while running his other hand all along smooth leather, fingers catching in the pull straps, trying to imagine the way Dean’s toes must be curling inside his boots.

“Dean I can’t – I won’t let you go,” Sam promises again, groaning as Dean slams down. “Won’t let them have you.”

“Sam – fuck – _please_ ,” Dean gasps.

Sam’s overwhelmed by the pleasure of it, losing himself to the speed of his thrusts, and the sound of Dean begging for more.

Dean’s reaching down to jack himself off, low, broken moans increasing in volume as Sam speeds up. He sneaks a hand between them to cup Dean’s balls, then reaching behind to touch where he’s pounding into Dean, tracing the edge of the stretched muscle before dragging the hand back up to Dean’s cock, wrapping around him and pulling tight.

“I won’t, I _won’t_ Dean,” Sam babbles, mouthing his pledge into Dean’s skin.

Dean drops his own hand away and rocks roughly into Sam’s renewed thrusts, reaching and falling over the edge with a sharp cry, head thrown back and body bowed tight. Sam’s hand is wet with Dean’s come, and he’s groaning from the contractions around his dick.

Sam moves desperately, can barely register any sensation that isn’t Dean’s body against his, or the sight of anything that isn’t Dean falling apart because of him. His orgasm steamrolls right over him, pleasure radiating from his centre in one overpowering burst. He falls back, letting Dean slump into him, still shuddering and weak from the intensity of his own high.

There isn’t breath left in his lungs, but when Dean pulls him up into a kiss, hot breath puffing into Sam’s mouth, Sam gives up – he didn’t need the oxygen anyway.

Dean rolls over onto his side, breathing heavily. Sam wraps himself around Dean, as if the lock of his limbs alone would keep his brother in this world.

-o-

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Thank you so much for reading! This is my first minibang, my first time writing Sam/Dean and my first fic over 10000 words! I was so lucky to be paired up with such a talented artist. It was quite fun - I only hope to improve for next year's challenge.  
> Additional notes:  
> 1\. Karen is a play on "Charon", the ferryman to Hades [ [x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charon_\(mythology\)) ]  
> 2\. Title is from: ❝ they say you die twice. one time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time. ❞ - Banksy  
> 


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